


matchbox myopia

by nanodarlings (incendiarism)



Series: boys playing god [4]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Arson, Fire, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Weird Dynamics, they're unhinged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:55:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22312858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incendiarism/pseuds/nanodarlings
Summary: Donghyuck breathes in, finds himself submerged in the sweet stench of gasoline and sweat. Finds himself beneath a sky filled with plumes of charcoal, harbingers of danger looming over his deal with the devil. A prayer lobbed up towards the clouds—a useless gesture, but a nice sentiment nonetheless; a last-ditch attempt to make it through whatever Na Jaemin is.In which setting a man on fire will keep him warm for the rest of his life.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Na Jaemin
Series: boys playing god [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642027
Comments: 19
Kudos: 46
Collections: violently tender





	matchbox myopia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boyeater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boyeater/gifts), [haesuns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haesuns/gifts).



> to my number one nahyuck enabler and my number one unhinged enabler! because [laughs] [BOY EATER (2000)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21590278) \+ [modus operandi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21949990) have ruined me beyond belief please please read these!
> 
> mandu: thank you for always being so supportive! not just to me, but for any (baby) nct writer. you have the best ideas and incredible presence and valid opinions and i'm so glad you decided to follow me after i screamed about do you feel like a young god on twitter. and of course thank you for the amazing idea of gifting fics out of the blue in the first place! mandu biggest brain ever. also i made this fic have a wc that ends with a zero. enjoy.
> 
> sol: hi sol your Incredible Mind-blowing Sweetest-thing-ever comment on light pollution is pretty much the primary factor that pushed me to finish this up in one go, so thank you for always being so sweet and encouraging! and yes this is what i meant in the discord. this is for you (and mandu). sol i Will scream at you at all times. my favorite unhinged writer please keep at it i will happily consume anything you throw at me.
> 
> in conclusion i love you both. please enjoy. this? thing! that's been occupying my mind for a while!
> 
> *** now with INCREDIBLE [fanart](https://twitter.com/haesunns/status/1228165375386243072?s=20) by sol ([haesunns](https://twitter.com/haesunns?s=20) on twt) ;-; ***

Bursts of crimsons and ambers, two figures set against the pyre background. Two figures, one with his back against the other. One heartbeat, two, and then— 

“Someday, Na Jaemin, mark my words,” Donghyuck says as he watches the outline of Jaemin’s silhouette flickering against the flames. “Someday, your luck is going to run out. Someday, you’re finally going to end up as the punchline in one of your scenes, end up as just another one of your victims: nothing but charred flesh and mauled bone.”

There’s a beat in between, in which all that can be heard is the crackle of the fire against silence. Slow, steady—a siren song, one that beckons in drifting sailors aboard lost boats, only to tear them apart from limb to limb. Jaemin turns around, flashes one of his trademark smiles: the one that could kill. A head of pink, rows and rows of bright white teeth, lighter dangling nonchalantly from his hand.

“Maybe. But I intend to make as much of it as I can before that happens.”

A few paces forward; a small tilt of the head. And now an outstretched palm, the lighter resting parallel to the fate line; and now an olive branch of peace. “The only question now is whether or not you’re coming with me, Lee Donghyuck.”

_Siren song, luring you into its reach._

Donghyuck breathes in, finds himself submerged in the sweet stench of gasoline and sweat. Finds himself beneath a sky filled with plumes of charcoal, harbingers of danger looming over his deal with the devil. A prayer lobbed up towards the clouds—a useless gesture, but a nice sentiment nonetheless; a last-ditch attempt to make it through whatever Na Jaemin is. And then— 

Well. Donghyuck has never been good at self-preservation.

He takes the lighter from Jaemin’s hand and watches as the smile on the other boy’s face curves into taking on a new form, a twisted gasp of entertainment slowly making its way across his mouth.

_Ah. So this is what it’s like to be shipwrecked._

—

If there’s one thing that Donghyuck has learned after spending so much time around Jaemin, it’s that he’s unpredictable as fuck.

(Ok, pause—a quick retcon: it’s not a fact to be learnt per se, it’s more of a hypothesis that gets confirmed time and time again. Because after one quick look at Jaemin, Donghyuck can tell that this is a boy who cannot sit still, that this is a boy who is volatile and brutal and _dangerous_. Donghyuck knows from day one that Jaemin comes with all sorts of unforeseen side-effects. And he’s right, just not quite in the way that he expected.)

Study One:

Jaemin is horribly unpredictable even in his predictability. Sometimes Donghyuck knows of his targets months in advance. Could map out the exact location of where he wants to hit, rattle off the top of his head all the nuances of the plan: this time he’ll start off with a nice layer of kerosene, ignite it with the old lighter he scavenged at an antique store, and pin the culprit on incompetant electricians.

But just as common is Donghyuck only finding out after the fact—getting tipped off by a snippet in the local news or from Jaemin coming back to their hotel room, nonchalance only ruined by the unmistakable look in his eye, the lingering traces of the sort of high that he gets from the whole ordeal.

This time, the shock level falls somewhere in the middle of the two extremes—in which Donghyuck is only given two curt texts from Jaemin to prepare himself: one with the address, and another one with _don’t keep me waiting_.

Donghyuck may or may not run a red light or two.

“Here?” hisses Donghyuck when he arrives, incredulity filling out his voice as he looks around. Jaemin’s standing atop the roof of a quaint house set within a small neighborhood, one of the nice ones that you might see on the cover of a home magazine—newly built, freshly trimmed lawn, a damn-close shot at picturesque.

If Jaemin wasn’t Jaemin and Donghyuck wasn’t Donghyuck, it’d be the type of place to settle down and grow old in. The sort of investment that you save up for; the sort of purchase that you show off to all your friends.

But as things stand, it’s more of a death trap, made by just how easy it would be for them to get caught. Proximity is horribly risky after all.

In more ways than one.

“Here of all damn places? There’s no way in hell you’re not getting found out.”

Jaemin stops from where he’s pacing along the roof and gazes down at where Donghyuck is standing below—hair plastered against his skin in the heat and face made to look terribly gaunt by the peculiar shading of the fire.

“First of all,” he responds—expression still calm and a certain amusement staining his voice, “I think you mean ‘there’s no way in hell _we’re_ not getting found.’ This is a joint operation now, darling.”

His hands fiddle with the matchbox he’s brought as he speaks. A small tip-off of his anticipation to move on, bypass the small-talk altogether and get to the good part—Jaemin’s never been one for patience.

“And second of all—”

Jaemin pauses. Makes eye-contact, bares his teeth in an elastic grin. It’s that particular look of his, the one that seems to rip Donghyuck apart piece by piece, stitch by stitch. “Of course we’re not getting caught.” Another pause as Jaemin seems to consider something for a moment, and then—

“Do you take me as insane, Donghyuck?” he asks, taking the time to linger on each syllable: each word stretched out and pulled apart like toffee; extra emphasis falling on the ‘Donghyuck’.

_Donghyuck has never been good at the whole self-preservation thing._

“Well, kind of, yeah,” he says, holding his breath afterwards as he waits for Jaemin’s reaction. Waiting to see if he’s just willingly placed himself in death’s row. 

_Torn apart from limb to limb._

Jaemin’s eyes widen ever so slightly—a minute shift that would go unnoticeable if not for his odd habit of staring at whoever he’s talking to and Donghyuck’s odd habit of staring back.

“You think I’m crazy?” 

He laughs: the one that’s bright and lilting at the edges; the one that’s naturally infused with the sort of charisma that Jaemin just automatically carries with him and makes people fawn over him, drawn into his charm like moths to a light.

“Good. I’m glad one of us still has some sense left in them.”

The one that sounds a lot like danger, all bottled up and packaged neatly within one boy.

(Donghyuck should probably plug his ears, learn from the myths and avoid Jaemin’s song at all costs. Should probably change course and find safer waters, ones not infested with creatures out for blood. There’s a certain sort of thrill, however, that comes with listening to Jaemin, and Donghyuck can’t help but to follow along in time, can’t help but to get hypnotized.) 

“But seriously, we’ll be fine; this house is practically rigged for combustion on its own already. Faulty wiring, an owner with a tendency to leave ovens and stoves on—” Jaemin articulates his words with wide sweeping motions as he speaks, as if he’s conducting a symphony set in the apocalypse, meant for no living soul to hear—“All you have to do is run the blame around itself, make it go in circles until it ends up tied in a neat little noose, and then watch as it chokes to death.”

_Sailors, when lost in the voices of the sirens, don’t seem to realize that the island they’re standing on is one made up of bones until it’s too late._

“It’s that easy eh?”

_Donghyuck is no sailor—he’s perfectly aware that he stands upon a foundation of marrow. But he’s ready to drown._

“It’s that easy.”

—

Here he is again, suspended on Jaemin’s strings.

Marionette doll, graveyard stage: you should know the drill by heart at this point.

Donghyuck looks out at the crumbling remains of the building laid out in front of him. Thinks about the ground up cinder that surrounds him, about the boy perched right in the middle of the aftermath of flammability.

It’s the sort of scene that could be something ripped straight from a work of art. The charred ground and darkened sky serve as the black bars forming the almost claustrophobic picture frame, placing Jaemin as the focal point of the painting. One made from messy brushstrokes, globs of paint slapped onto the canvas, smatterings of color and tone and value. 

But in the end, the artist’s work would only result in a half-futile attempt to recreate the true essence of scene—fire is notoriously hard to capture after all, with its odd lighting and constant motion and the way you can’t stare at one spot for too long.

Lighting and motion: fitting for Jaemin, with his dancing words and fidgeting hands and curious sort of luminescence that seems to irradiate through all of his movements. A constant stream of activity, the sort that catches you in its wake and leaves no room for objection. The sort of gravity that Donghyuck’s been drawn into and won’t ever escape.

It’s mesmerizing, a fever dream.

In the dreamscape, some part of you—buried deep within your slumber of course—knows that you’re dreaming, that none of it is real. But that part of you pales in comparison to your perceived reality, pales in comparison to the images laid out right in front of you. Because it’s always easier to simply surrender to what’s been served to you on a silver platter than to force yourself to think, force your mind to follow that winding road filled with jagged edges and hairpin turns.

So you stay inside that mindset of automatic acceptance. You stay inside the picture frame. You pretend that it’s all truth and gospel and tell yourself that _no, you are not hallucinating._

 _You are not hallucinating,_ even though everything is slightly off: wax dripping from candles, surroundings slowly melting until they’re unrecognizable, a poor imitation of their former selves. _You are not hallucinating,_ even though your consciousness has become indistinguishable from that sort of thing, like dreams and reality have been irreversibly conjoined into one mind-bending meshwork.

It’s the feeling of always being nearsighted. Everything blurring into a haze of colors, until only a faint awareness of reality is left. A simple wash of warmth, a wave of heat—and Jaemin is the paradigm shift, the click into focus, the mode of heightened senses. Jaemin is the only one that can force Donghyuck to see clearly, force him to find clarity in between blurred lines and hazy figures.

Otherwise, as he’s left alone in his room:

Soot on his hands, blackened bodies, the smell of burnt clothes. Cinder ground so fine that now it seems to permeate his entire being: filled up in each pore, stuffed into each hollow. The dips between each of his ribs, the dark of the opening of his mouth.

It’s a sort of tetris effect, in which after playing a game for so long it starts to become ingrained into your everyday life. For Donghyuck, it turns into orange always flickering at the edges of his vision; it turns into paying far too much attention to anyone who so much as mentions faulty wiring or forgetful tendencies.

A sort of pyromaniacal opportunist, constantly watching for the smallest slip up to exploit, to turn into a new project, a fresh adrenaline rush.

A vehicle to feed the addiction.

Sometimes he wonders if it’s always been like this for Jaemin; if it’s simply been inlaid into his default settings. If it’s the sort of thing that comes without having to think about it—the type that’s grown so familiar that it’s almost coming home in a sense. The type that’s all consuming, a bit like the fire itself.

Watching Jaemin operate in his element is something a bit like clockwork: each piece moving in time, going around and around with terrifying precision. Not a gear turning the wrong way, or else the whole contraption is useless.

—

Ok, pause again. Rewind. Start from the top this time:

Shitty suburban town, one with some sort of barely acknowledged historical significance that ebbed away into no present-day meaning. Cracked sidewalks and dirty roads, ones that mirror the state of the residents with an uncanny resemblance.

“Where are you from?”—Donghyuck asks; _You’re not from around here_ —Donghyuck means.

Shock of bubblegum pink hair, honeyed tongue, sickly sweet words. From this very first meeting, premonition ringing in his chest, Donghyuck knows one thing: Na Jaemin will be the death of him. Na Jaemin will be the sun to his Icarus, the one that strips him of his wax wings and leaves him to plummet.

“Oh, you know, just here and there. I’ve moved around a lot, always been the flighty type.” 

But still, Donghyuck decides to climb higher.

“Really now? Care to tell me more about these places? I’ve never left this town you see—born and raised here, lived in the same house all my life.”

Jaemin’s eyebrows lift. “It’s never anywhere too interesting, always work-related incidents. We’ll see if you stick around long enough for me to tell you.”

_Ah._

“Maybe another time then.”

Semi-truths, half-promises. The feeling of deja-vu—it’s happening again. Donghyuck is going to end up with a toothache at this point; Donghyuck is going to end up ruined from Jaemin’s presence.

Candy’s the sort of thing that only provides temporary satisfaction—you have the high from the sugar rush, but then all that’s left after that is the plummet, the free fall back into reality. The energy simply burns itself out too quickly, flies itself too close to the sun and melts off its own altitude.

Any venture he makes with Jaemin will not last. It’ll be a piece of chocolate that’s been forgotten out in the sun for too long, left melted and misshapen. The sort of thing that ends in wilted roses, expired milk, clichés like that. He’s done it before—gone for the wrong boy, ended up with a split lip and bruised knees and a shuddering pulse.

And isn’t there a saying about this sort of thing? _Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me._

So he puts on a stubborn front, decides to swim against the current that is Jaemin. And it works: for Jaemin’s brief stint in town, Donghyuck manages to evade all of his advances. Turns down most of his invitations with a polite _no thank you_ , carefully perforates himself so that when Jaemin leaves, it’ll be a clean rip, a neat tear.

So that when Jaemin leaves, he’s finally able to breathe. Finally able to clear his head of whatever infection that’s set in.

But nothing ever lasts, and after a few months of reprise, he’s back again without any sort of warning. Donghyuck is trying to mind his own business, trying to slough off whatever part of him is still attracted to Jaemin by neglecting it, and like a curse Jaemin reappears in front of him. Damn.

He comes with a proposal:

“Remember when I said that if you stuck around, I’d consider telling you about where I’ve traveled to?”

Donghyuck nods. Because of course he remembers—with the way it’s branded into his memory, he could reenact every single second of that day if he wanted to.

Jaemin smiles. “Well, want to come with me then?”

A fracture in Donghyuck’s composure as Jaemin begins his song.

“And with what money? What plan?”

“Don’t worry about that, I can take care of it.”

Sugar rush—Donghyuck feels that all-too-familiar shot of addiction spiraling up his gut again. 

And Donghyuck always ends up the fool. Maybe one of these days he’ll learn his lesson, learn to avoid the things that are bad for him. One of these days.

But for now:

“Run away with me, Lee Donghyuck.”

At the end of everything, when stripped down to just a thudding heart and some plastic courage, Donghyuck is horribly weak.

_And here we see one Lee Donghyuck, signing himself over to the devil. Showtime._

—

Study Two:

Winter makes Jaemin awfully restless.

It’s a bit like watching a caged predator prowl around the confines of a cage, running himself ragged over and over again as it paces relentlessly, eyes sharp and on the lookout for an escape.

Maybe Donghyuck should step away from the cage. Maybe Donghyuck shouldn’t stand so close to the bars. Metal, after all, always has a melting point.

But in the cage, Donghyuck finds Jaemin staring into space at times, hands twitching in their desire for action. Hands always fidgeting, always in motion. He bursts into laughter at odd intervals, before his mood quickly flatlines again, emotions constantly fluctuating.

Fireworks in confined spaces are dangerous. One day, Donghyuck is going to be too near when he bursts and end up scorched beyond repair—nervous system broken and burnt away, skin melting into flesh melting into bones, altogether mangled and useless. 

Jaemin is a fuse; Jaemin is a rapidly burning match: the flame inching down the stick with each ticking second, eating away at his own lifespan. At the end of his line, he’s going to burn himself out—himself and anyone foolish enough to keep holding on.

The most logical path for Donghyuck to take would be to extinguish Jaemin, smother him before things go too far.

But he’s never been known for his self-preservation instinct, remember?

And it’s a fever dream. There’s no need for logic here, no need for rigidity. After all, it’s fire that they’re talking about.

And it’s Jaemin. He’s inescapable, inevitable: a factor that Donghyuck can’t remove without losing the integrity of the entire equation.

And another point to be made: beyond the simple, animalistic energy that radiates off of Jaemin, there’s also a more muted sense of homesickness falling underneath. It makes him seem hopelessly displaced, thrown out into a new environment that he can’t help but to rebel against.

It’s not sadness per se, more of a quiet longing. More of a small tick that crosses his face sometimes, a little glitch in his operating system.

Donghyuck pities him. Meaning that Donghyuck pities an arsonist. Donghyuck pities an arsonist in all of his ecstasy and acidity, matched with burn marks and nightmares.

And so Donghyuck holds on for dear life.

—

Maybe Jaemin loves him, maybe he doesn’t. It’s a weird gray area—all of his words point to _yes,_ point to _I’m in love with you_ , but Donghyuck can’t help but wonder sometimes if it’s just an artifice, a means to an end. If telling Donghyuck that he loves him is just an act Jaemin puts up as an easy way to keep him on a leash: inexpensive without sacrificing effectiveness.

Donghyuck wouldn’t blame him if this were true.

And besides, it’s not entirely Jaemin. Donghyuck plays a role here as well; Donghyuck always reciprocates. Donghyuck is the idiot who’s stumbled too far into the woods; Red Riding Hood met with the Wolf. 

He’s absolutely obsessed, filled with some sort of all consuming burn that he can’t seem to put out. Jaemin is clockwork, ticking around and around, the sort that Donghyuck can’t ever get rid of—won’t ever get rid of. And if that means falling prey to Jaemin’s will, then so be it.

Meaning that at the end of the day— 

Donghyuck is the gun, the flame is the bullet, and Jaemin is the puppeteer with his hand over the trigger.

Gun, bullet. Body, bullet.

What is Donghyuck then, if not a simple cartridge for the flame?

 _Ah_ , so this is why he feels like he’s burning up sometimes, disintegrating in showers of searing white and gold.

Jaemin’s hands around his neck, around his trigger, forcing his muzzle open.

The safety’s off. _Ashes ashes, we all fall down._

—

If there’s one thing that has never left Donghyuck, through childhood and all the way up to meeting Jaemin, it’s his shitty, shitty luck.

And it all takes form in the shape of his dad, breathing down his back. Asking him what the hell he’s doing with his life, what the hell he’s doing with _his_ blood running through his veins.

Yeah. Fuck.

It’s a rinse and repeat sort of loop, a ritual that Donghyuck will dwell on for a few weeks before laying the ghost to rest. He’s used to it. But Donghyuck forgets to add Jaemin’s presence to his calculations this time, so when he relents one day and voices out what’s been bothering him— 

“Oh. It’s going to be alright then, Donghyuck. I’ll make sure—” Jaemin breaks off, in thought, hands going towards Donghyuck’s to rub circles into them. And then— “I’ll make sure that he gets what he deserves. Don’t worry about it.”

_Oh._

It’s easy to forget sometimes that fire was invented as a tool meant for survival, for a better way of life. That in its origins, fire was born out of necessity, not out of harm.

Olive trees, olive branches are strangely flame-resistant.

Donghyuck just might have a chance of getting out of this alive after all. Or at least with only a few third-degree burns.

 _That’d be enough_ , he tells himself every once in a while when he’s stuck in front of his reflection, at odds with where his life is taking him. _To know what it’s like to be in Jaemin’s grasp and walk away not too badly scorched. That’d be enough._

And then—stubborn, like clockwork: _I want to stay alive._

Heartbeat drumming against his chest.

_I will stay alive._

— 

Study Three:

Another shitty hotel room, another shitty small town. Jaemin approaches and grabs him by the shoulders: fingers pressing miniature crescent moons into his flesh.

Almost absentmindedly, Donghyuck notices how long that Jaemin’s nails have gotten, how they’ve started to curl into the sides. How Jaemin’s already small face has only gotten thinner, razor-bladed down to a myriad of sharp edges.

He thinks of the times where he’s only met with a blank look when he asks Jaemin when the last time he ate was. Thinks of the times where Donghyuck has to force Jaemin to sleep, to shower, to rest.

Paint peeling off the walls, fruit bowl filled to the brim with rot: Donghyuck is struck with the realization that Jaemin wouldn’t survive if left to his own devices. Wouldn’t survive without him. 

Ah, of course. The caged predator is forced to be dependant on the caretaker when trapped.

_Do you want to stay alive?_

So, what do you have then? A gun, a man, a life.

The gun saves the man’s life; the man uses the gun to take a life.

So Donghyuck has gone and made himself useful. So Donghyuck has managed to wrangle in Jaemin’s pulse.

It’s an electrifying epiphany: the certain satisfaction that as much as Jaemin has him deadlocked in his own pocket of gravity, Donghyuck can still pull the cord on Jaemin’s lifeline at anytime.

_I will stay alive._

Donghyuck rips himself out from Jaemin’s clutches and leads him to the cigarette-hole riddled couch. Sits him down to sort him out.

_Matchpoint, Jaemin. Matchpoint._

—

Somewhere along the line, Donghyuck finds that all of his clothes carry the faint stench of gasoline. A trait that Donghyuck used to only associate with Jaemin, now marked on his own person.

An indication of the point of no return. Interesting.

He wonders, briefly, if Odysseus had ever considered the possibility of becoming a siren himself.

The right words with the right god, and he could join the harmony. Forever.

— 

Fire escape, secluded alleyway. Two in the morning, dim streetlights. Nothing but the occasional blare of a car as it crashes by to set the scene.

Jaemin’s hanging off the staircase that’s attached to the room of some stranger. _A dose of irony_ , he’d called it. _The fire escape met with the pyromaniac. How poetic._

So the two of them are there, one leaning against rust-coated metal and the other straining his neck to look up at the former.

Silence, only modified by Jaemin telling Donghyuck to _catch_ as he drops something from behind bars. A matchbox, with only one match left.

“Thought that you should have the honors, darling,” he tells him as Donghyuck holds the box up to the light. 

_Gun, bullet._

“I’m touched. Why though?”

Jaemin peers down at him from the railing. Fixes him with a dangerously perceptive look.

“You’ve been thinking a bit too much lately. Figured you should clear your head a bit.”

Donghyuck moves to protest, but Jaemin continues—

“I’m insane, Donghyuck, but not that insane. I can tell that you think you’ve got me trapped, that you think you’re the only thing keeping me alive.” 

_Body, bullet._

“And you’re right—you’re smart like that of course—but you seem to have forgotten that there’s nothing for you left in this world without me. Dead family, abandoned friends, no job. Why, society would swallow you whole.”

Something in Donghyuck’s gut twists. Maybe he should’ve learned what self-preservation was back when it could’ve still saved him.

“Light the match, Donghyuck. Remember that this is all we have now.”

Of course. The bullet could kill the man in a heartbeat, but without human hands there’s no one to pull the trigger, to reload the gun.

Donghyuck holds the match between slightly trembling fingers. Breathes in—finds that all he can smell is gasoline. The oddly caloric chemical, sweet and burning and deadly.

Standing on a framework made up of bones, he presses the head of the match to the striking surface and drags it across. Friction paired with flammability to create fire.

The flame springs into life and then slowly chews down its lifespan.

From up above, Jaemin grins. Dark mouth filled with shockingly white teeth.

Donghyuck drowns in the smoke without a second thought, still holding on to the match for dear life.

**Author's Note:**

> haha fire pretty. unbetaed because this simply felt like one of those fics that you write only between the hours of 1:00-3:00 am for a few weeks, finish out in one long day, and then slam the post button on. meaning that if there's any typos please scream at me.
> 
> anyways thank you for reading! feel free to tell me what you think on twt + cc & in the comments below!
> 
> twt: [@nanodarlings](https://twitter.com/nanodarlings)  
> cc: [aphelions](https://curiouscat.me/aphelions)
> 
> [inspiration](https://hereinevitably.dreamwidth.org/2662.html)


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